


My Own Worst Enemy

by raritysdiamonds



Series: Kinktober of Doom 2020 [1]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Angst, Hate Sex, Kinktober 2020, M/M, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Selfcest, Zib has issues, insert go fuck yourself joke here, one sided hate sex??, they are 18+
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26910493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raritysdiamonds/pseuds/raritysdiamonds
Summary: You know exactly how to push all of his buttons, your buttons, exceptyourbuttons got so horribly mashed and messed up and switched out of order you’re not sure where they are anymore.You can’t take his life, but you can make himyours.
Relationships: dib/zib
Series: Kinktober of Doom 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997167
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	My Own Worst Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to try and finally do a couple Kinktober things, so have a Thing for day 9: selfcest!! an RP buddy recently got me into the glorious mess that is Dib/Zib, which this fandom absolutely needs more of, so here is my humble contribution 👉👈
> 
> thanks for reading and as always I would love to hear your thoughts! <3

He’s everything you could have been, who you  _ should _ have been, and you hate him more than anything. 

You hate the way he looks at you, with those big, stupid,  _ soft _ eyes. That he has the audacity to act like the bigger person, so nice and mature and  _ forgiving,  _ when he still has everything that was ripped away from you: his home, his dad, his Gaz, even his utter embarrassment of a Zim. That he thinks he gets to play the hero  _ now _ \- conveniently forgetting how you trusted him all those years ago, the one person you believed would understand, who  _ had _ to understand because you were the same, weren’t you? And then he stabbed you in the back - sold you out to the  _ Zims _ , talk about adding insult to injury - and abandoned you to rot in the desolate wreck you once called home. But that’s okay, ‘cause now he  _ forgives _ you!

You’re not playing along. You don’t want his sympathy, his pity, his  _ friendship _ ; you scowl and scoff and snap when he holds out the metaphorical olive branch, push and shove and fight every attempt to find common ground. You hit back, prodding and pinching and needling away at his deepest fears and insecurities and inadequacies, all the stuff you know so intimately because you’ve been left to dwell on it for the better part of six years,  _ you _ never had the luxury of getting to learn and grow and change from the first twelve years of your excruciating existence. You know exactly how to push all of his buttons, your buttons, except  _ your _ buttons got so horribly mashed and messed up and switched out of order you’re not sure where they are anymore. And you know how to drag him down with you, never letting him forget that he could’ve been you, you should’ve been him, where does one end and the other begin? 

When you slam him against the wall, you can almost forget. You can savour the anger and fear and arousal in his eyes right before claiming his mouth in something that can’t really be called a  _ kiss,  _ more of an attack, a heated, chaotic collision of lips, all teeth and tongues and lust and rage. You even hate his stupid  _ ears _ , the silver glint of an earring taunting you with what you can no longer have. They should be  _ your _ ears; you bite at them, hooking your teeth (too blunt to do any real damage, too nubby, too alien) into the loop and tugging like you’re going to rip it right out until he yelps in pain. You bite and nip and suck all the way down from his ear to his jaw, his neck, relishing how he shudders and gasps, determined to leave him as thoroughly marked and messed up and debauched as possible. 

You can’t take his life, but you can make him  _ yours _ . 

He can’t pity you when you’re climbing on top of him, digging your claws into his shoulders and dragging them down his chest, biting and twisting his nipples (you don’t even have  _ those _ anymore, not that you particularly miss them, it’s just yet another reminder of what you are now) while he squirms and whimpers under you like the pathetic worm he is (careful, that’s dangerously close to a Zim thought; it’s not him, it’s you, you’re still  _ you _ ). 

He can’t feel sorry for you when you’re  _ better _ , your body stronger, your senses sharper, you can do things now he could only dream of. You can hold him down with your (Zim’s, they’re  _ Zim’s _ , they just obey you now) PAK legs and coil your longer, more dexterous tongue around the entire length of his cock, squeezing and teasing and drawing out every last disgusting delicious moan, because  _ you _ know what he likes, how he touches himself, you know how to bring him right to the edge and keep him there until he’s begging you for release, utterly at your mercy, forced to admit you’re still the  _ ultimate _ Dib and always will be.

He can’t take the moral high ground when you’re shoving his face into the mattress and hissing into his ear that he’d better keep it down, unless he wants his precious family to know what a filthy, depraved little whore he is, loving getting fucked by his evil half-alien alternate self like some terrible sci-fi porno. 

He can’t do much of anything except collapse into a pathetic puddle of bliss by the time you’re finished with him…so why is it you that starts to feel exposed, lying there in his bed ( _ his _ bed, his room, his house, his universe; you’re the intruder, the impostor, you’ll never belong again)? You’re both sticky and sweaty and gross; you should be shoving him away in disgust, but you stay, stuck with each other in every awful ironic sense of the word. You can’t look at his face (your face, it should’ve been  _ yours _ ), so you bury yours into the crook of his neck and mutter: “I hate you.”

He huffs this noise - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh - and his breath tickles your antennae; you hate that you can’t help but shiver as they twitch, too sensitive, too vulnerable. He’s stupid and soft and warm, his hand is too gentle on the small of your back, and you hate that you can’t let him go.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated <3


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